All I Did Was Shoot My Man

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I’d been running a low-grade fever for nearly a week. It wasn’t debilitating; more like consciousness-altering. My senses were affected. Sometimes the world looked fuzzy and at other times sounds became muffled, then intense. I could feel myself moving through the heavy atmosphere with the full weight of my one hundred and eighty-three pounds pressing down on the soles of my feet.

Aspirin usually dispelled these symptoms, but I’d left the little plastic box on my desk and couldn’t leave the urine-smelling corner I was in because I was there to meet a client — of sorts.

The lower level of the Port Authority Bus Station at Forty-second Street was populated by young hopefuls on the way to colleges and new lovers on the way to life. Mixed in with the optimists moved also-rans headed anywhere but where they found themselves. Sprinkled in among the civilians were crackheads, along with various policemen, Port Authority employees, and freelance crooks.

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